


Reckoning

by sweetfayetanner



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Blood Magic, Bloodplay, F/M, Knifeplay, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-07-18 13:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16119146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: A Gray accidentally finds Michael while he’s performing the ritual. Things take an interesting turn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After that scene, I had to, and I don't normally write stuff like this. But here we are.

It was always eerily quiet in the corridors, especially once the residents of Outpost 3 disappeared into their rooms for another artificial night. The silence became a heavy presence, almost deafening, making her ears burn. A little over eighteen months later, she knew every hall, every secret corridor where she and her fellow Grays slipped by without notice. They were narrow, winding; the same monochromatic colors doused in the sickly yellow glow thrown by thousands of candles and dozens fires. It had been confusing, in the beginning. Navigating them felt like wandering aimlessly through a maze where every corner looked identical to the next.

Still, she’d be lying if she said walking them alone didn’t freak her out a little. Months in seclusion took its toll on a person eventually. There had been moments where she thought she’d seen something lurking out of reach. A shadow, maybe, or a trick of the light’s unsteady motion. There were other things, too—whispers, the feeling of a breath along the back of her neck, fingertips brushing her hair. She’d begun to think that there was more living in this bunker than its mortal inhabitants. The world’s population had been decimated; all of those lost souls had to roam somewhere. Was that so unbelievable to consider?

Maybe she was just getting claustrophobic. And tired. And sick of waiting on these conceited rich fucks.

She moved fast through one of the narrow walkways to a corridor that they rarely used. There were plenty of those spaces in here; vacant rooms and antechambers where candles continued to melt wax onto the floors. She didn’t know what their purpose was other than to cause more confusion that necessary.

Somewhere nearby a voice echoed, halting her steps. At first, she thought it had been a delusion from the exhausted part of her mind. Prolonged silence could twist the imagination in unsettling ways. But then she heard it again—just a fragment of sound, the hollow noise of someone’s raised shout. Not enough to piece together who it could have been. It was enough, however, to compel her forward. She lifted her chin, closing her eyes in an attempt to find its source. It probably wasn’t in her best interest to go chasing after strange voices in the night, but she’d always been a little too curious for her own good.

The halls thinned out, the shadows deeper away from the candles’ reach. The voice beckoned her onward until the indecipherable echoes finally resembled words. A masculine tone that seemed vaguely familiar. Her mind didn’t have time to process whatever was being said, just the commanding tone, the haunting litany ricocheting off the walls. A door was open at the end of a darkened hallway. One of those empty rooms she’d never given much thought to, hidden away down here in the lowest levels of the outpost. One of those rooms you’d only ever stumble across if you weren’t really looking for it.

She pressed her back to the wall, holding tight to the shadows. It was easy to blend in; she’d become used to it here. She inched closer to the door, careful to keep out of the light spilling across the threshold from the circular antechamber within. Sliding behind the door, she held her breath—these doors creaked like hell with even the slightest provocation. Candles flickered in the gap between the doorframe and the hinges, which gave just enough space to look in.

She dug her fingernails into the skin of her palm to suppress the gasp that threatened to claw its way out of her throat.

_Langdon._

Rivulets of cream-colored wax congealed on the floor where a circle had been formed in the middle of the room. Langdon crouched in its center, naked, crimson dripping from his fingertips. He was covered in it—bright red smeared over his neck, pooling underneath his knees as it ran down his legs. Splattered across toned muscle and pale flesh from the twin gashes that ran the length of his arms.

 _What the fuck. What the fuck._ Her thoughts went haywire, trying to process the sight in front of her and reconcile it with the polished albeit unnerving representative from The Cooperative. There’d been something off about him from the start, but there was still this weird part of her that found him alluring. She couldn’t help it, really; he’d been the most fascinating person to show up at the outpost in months.

He’d spread his own blood all over the floor, outlining a pentagram within the circle of half-melted candles. _What the actual fuck._ She was aware in some distant way that her fight or flight response should have kicked in after she noticed the blood. But that strange allure, that inexplicable and magnetic charm won out, rooting her to the spot.

She watched him drag the blood from the hollow of his neck down to his collarbones in long streaks. He drew chaotic patterns across his chest and abdomen, leaving behind smudged fingerprints as he drew in deep, even breaths. He savored it as if it was something divine, something ethereal. She bit the inside of her cheek, willing the sudden need that rose up from a really fucked up part of her soul to _stop_. The tips of her ears burned white hot, a shameful blush blossoming over her cheeks.

She should have been terrified. She should’ve run. Her breath came in uneven, shallow gasps that she couldn’t control. Her heart thundered in her chest so loudly she thought he might hear it. She closed her fist around the fabric of her dress to keep from shaking. Whatever fear she might’ve felt, it wasn’t enough.

“Ave Satanas.”

The words sent a shudder through her, as if the whispered chant had drenched her in a pool of freezing water. Something moved across her shoe, curling around her ankle. She yelped and jumped backward, a jolt sent through her elbow when it slammed into the door.

“Shit,” she hissed. A pitch black shape coiled at her feet, and she realized a few seconds too late what the hell it was. “Ugh!” She kicked at the snake until it uncurled itself, slithering away back into the shadows, its beady eyes glinting like jewels in the weak candlelight.

A low, amused laugh echoed from the antechamber. “Come in,” Langdon beckoned. His voice cut like the edge of a blade. “You’ve been standing out there long enough.”

_Oh, fuck._

She didn’t see the point in running. She wasn’t supposed to be here; she’d been stupid, she’d gotten caught. What would have stopped him from killing her later? It wasn’t as if she’d be missed—a mere ant, invisible, replaceable. She figured it was better to take her chances now.

Her shoe scuffed the floor as she crossed the threshold, trembling. Langdon remained on his knees, his head tipped upward slightly as if he was looking down on her despite the fact that she was the one standing. She tried to keep her eyes from wandering away from his face, his gentle features bathed in a warm glow, unblemished by the scarlet coating his hands. She tried so hard to quell the heat and shove that lust into a corner where he couldn’t find it. But she was sure by now that he could sense it—there was something frighteningly omnipotent about him.

And there was still that nagging thought that she _wanted_ him to find it.

More snakes skittered across the floor, hissing around their feet, leaving trails of Langdon’s blood everywhere.

She exhaled. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice surprisingly steady. “What…are you?”

One corner of his lips curled in a faint smirk. He pushed off the floor with the palms of his hands and stood. Her gaze traveled to the knife lying inches from his feet amid the blood-splattered pentagram, thankful that he didn’t seem interested in retrieving it. Yet.

“That’s classified.”

She scoffed. “Of course it is.”

“You think I owe you an explanation?” His tone was cold, arrogant. “Why would I need to explain myself to _you_?”

“I think you owe it to everyone,” she told him.

“You’re in no position whatsoever to be giving _me_ orders,” Langdon warned.

He breached the circle, and her stomach gave a painful leap. The light flickered over his skin as he closed the distance between them, each movement carrying a sinister edge beneath the mesmerizing sway of his hips. She took in every detail, no longer concerned about what he might’ve thought. He was lithe, much leaner that she might’ve guessed underneath all of that Victorian attire. She suppressed the overwhelming urge to run her fingers down the sculpted muscle of his arms, knowing he possessed more than enough strength to be deadly.

Langdon left a line of bloody footprints across the floor. Instinctively, she took a step back when he stopped inches from her face. The pungent metallic odor suffused the air around them, making her stomach roil.

“Aren’t I?” she challenged. If he meant to kill her, she didn’t intend to go quietly without a fight. “It looks like you have secrets on top of secrets. And you probably want them to stay that way.”

“There’s a simple solution to that problem,” Langdon said. He paced around her, leisurely, circling like a vulture. “They won’t miss you…won’t go looking for you.”

_Shit. Okay._

“Fair point,” she said. “But I’m not interested in making you an enemy, Langdon. I’ve seen and heard plenty of shit around here that I’d never tell a soul. It’s the perk of being invisible.” She shivered when he ran his hands over her shoulders, his hip brushing against hers. “I’d rather keep breathing, if you don’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” Langdon drawled, raking his fingers through her hair.

She felt his hand settle on the back of her neck, the other tracing an agonizingly slow trail up her spine. The warmth of his deliberate fingertips was almost maddening, and she found herself leaning into his touch, relishing the closeness of his body. Langdon stood in front of her again, his head titled to one side, amusement alight in the clear blue of his eyes. Whatever had darkened his features before vanished; she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the delicate slope of his nose, the dusting of red at the corners of his eyes. She’d keep a thousand of his secrets if he looked at her like that.

He inhaled, sweeping the hair off one of her shoulders to drag his thumb along her jawline.

“You’re so goddamn desperate I can smell it on you,” Langdon growled. “All those endless months spent deprived of a single touch. Silently begging for anything—even the smallest of gestures would make you weak.” He dragged his fingers down the side of her neck, his breath now ghosting along her ear. The sticky, cooling blood left marks on her skin. She gave a sharp exhale in response. _Damn him._ “So fucking starved of it that you’d ask that of me.”

She felt dizzy, intoxicated by his presence, his lips frustratingly close to her skin but not nearly close enough. She hated herself for the tiny, desperate whimper that seemed to fill up the room. Langdon finally pressed his lips to her neck, weaving a pattern of faint kisses from the edge of her collarbone up to her ear. The noise it provoked from her was embarrassingly needy; he laughed, the rich, pleasant sound sending fire straight into her veins.

She should’ve took off running, but she didn’t want to.

“Fuck you,” she snarled.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she pushed against his chest until the two of them collided into the nearest wall. A few of the candles toppled in their path, their flames immediately snuffed out in the breeze stirred up from their quick movement. Langdon grunted when his back hit the cold tile, his bare toes trampling over freshly melted hot wax. The hiss of pain that escaped his mouth only encouraged her further. Her fingernails broke his skin, finding purchase in the smooth planes of his chest until her hands were slick with the blood he’d smeared there. He tried to capture her face in his bloodied hands, but she seized his wrists, pinning them to the wall on either side of his head.

Langdon grinned, his breath making the strands of hair in front of his face flutter. Some of it was matted to his neck and tinged red.

It’d been too easy. Langdon dipped his head forward, his lips brushing against her own. “I just wanted to see what you would do,” he teased.

She pressed her hips into his, her breath caught in her throat, the heat from his body seeping through her dress. Her thumbs found the identical wounds where he’d carved them from the space above his wrist. She dug in until they bled again, ribbons of scarlet flowing down his arms and staining her hands, her clothes. Langdon groaned, tipping his head back, his eyes closing in a haze of violent pleasure. Her lips wandered along his exposed neck, kissing him until she tasted blood on her tongue, until finally he surrendered a desperate noise that rebounded off the ceiling.

She captured his lips in a searing kiss, drawing him in deep, filling up the parts of her that had been deprived for so long. When she pulled away from him, satisfied, the ebb and flow of their quickened breaths echoed around the room. Langdon held her in place with the weight of his icy gaze.

She leaned in close again, her thumbs scraping into his wounds. Her mouth hovered against his, teasing him like he had done to her before. She wanted him to feel her words as if they were his own.

“Ave Satanas.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was originally going to leave this as a one shot, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. Turns out that these two had more to say to each other, and writing older Michael screwing with people is fun.

He laughed at her. It was a surprisingly pleasant sound, lilting and genuine, from the way his eyes sparkled in the dim golden light. And it was tinged with just enough smugness that she wanted to reach out and dig her nails straight into his throat. Instead, she applied pressure into his wounds until the warmth of fresh blood coated her fingers again. The scent of it was nauseating and inescapable—she didn’t know how the hell she’d be able to explain the red on her clothes if someone found her in a corridor, didn’t know how long it would take for the scent of iron to leave her nose. If it ever would.

That is, if Langdon intended on letting her go alive.

The chances were pretty fucking unlikely now.

Langdon sucked in a breath. She watched the unsteady catch in his chest, the blood still bright and glistening on his pale skin. His eyes closed, his head dropping back into the wall with his chin held upward, long eyelashes fluttering as she dragged a low moan from his throat. It was hard to tell if it had been provoked by pleasure or pain, but part of her wanted to assume both. Another part of her hoped it was all pain—the agony of her fingernails tearing their way through flesh and muscle, his veins purging themselves of every drop of blood.

She didn’t know why she wanted this so badly. But she couldn’t stop; it was like a dam had finally collapsed somewhere inside of her, and he was watching the tidal wave, praying for it to drown her.

“I knew there was something fucked up about you,” she said. _It’s always the well-dressed ones._ _Attractive but deadly._ She was distantly aware of the snakes still winding around the antechamber. Their ambient hiss, the wet, sloshing noise they made while they continued to streak crimson across the floor made her skin crawl.

_So, what kind of fucked up are you? Satan worshipper. Manipulative bastard. Serial killer?_

…Where the shit had those snakes come from?

“About _me_?” Langdon still had his eyes closed. A crooked, teasing grin made one corner of his lips upturn. His tone was light, almost soft, and smooth like whiskey warming her chest from the inside out. He sounded almost incredulous, but she knew that it had to be for his own dark enjoyment. It was apparent to her now that he was _that_ kind of fucked up. “I believe _you’re_ the one wrist-deep in my blood, so eager to spill it.”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same if the tables were turned,” she countered between gritted teeth. “You wanted to kill me five minutes ago.”

Langdon opened his eyes. “It was a suggestion, a possible outcome.” He narrowed his gaze, downcast to where she had fallen slightly away from him. “You’re still breathing, and…from where I stand, it’s _you_ who has the advantage.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. Her thumbs slipped from inside the cuts along his arms, her fingers slick, coated in scarlet as they grasped his biceps. He didn’t even flinch, his cold gaze unrelenting. “But I’m not the one in control.”

“Aren’t you?” he drawled.

He was so fucking infuriating—answering her questions with more questions, playing some twisted game she’d unwittingly been drawn into. Langdon straightened his chin and stared at her expectantly, his pupils wide, the candle flames dancing in the endless black. Like he was piercing her very soul, like he could read every single thought and feeling in the clusterfuck of her mind.

She _hated_ that. She hated _him_ , for toying with her, making her so damn desperate and weak that she’d actually fucking kissed him. Langdon had given in, too, but now she doubted the sincerity of his touch, his mouth on hers.

Probably not. She didn’t think there was anything sincere about this man, except for the obvious gleeful, calculating, mind fuckery.

The knife was still there on the floor behind her in a pool of blood, in that snake-infested pentagram…

“You want me to feel like I am,” she guessed. “Because you know that I could do whatever the hell I wanted and you wouldn’t be in any real danger.”

Langdon’s mouth opened a little, head tilting to one side. A few disheveled strands of hair had become plastered to the blood along his collarbones and the hollow of his neck, but the rest fell across his shoulders. His beauty was maddening to her, too. He was pretty as fuck—sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could’ve inspired paintings and sculptures in another life, smooth, glowing skin and those impossibly blue eyes.

If only she hadn’t seen the black seeping out of the whites of his eyes, shining like obsidian. If only he wasn’t covered in his own blood. She would’ve mistaken him for an angel.

“And what would you want to do?” Langdon dipped his head closer to her, his nose skirting her hair. His fingers flexed from where they were trapped against the wall on either side of him, and although her grip on his arms wasn’t anywhere near vice-like, he didn’t make any sort of effort to break from it.

Her mouth was dry; she swept her tongue across her bottom lip. “What?” The answer came out as a hoarse, annoyed grunt, far less composed than she wanted to be.

“Eighteen months is a long time to hold onto all of that anger.” Langdon’s breath fanned across the side of her neck, his words so close that she couldn’t stop that tremor that jolted through her body. “You have so much of it, don’t you? Can’t decide if you’re better off on the outside than you are in here, wasting away. In here, you’re _nothing_. They look right through you as if you don’t even exist.”

“Fuck if I care,” she snapped, fingers tightening around smooth muscle. His skin was hot to the touch; an ethereal sort of heat that seemed to curl around him. “I don’t want anything to do with those rich assholes.”

“Really?” He held her prisoner in his gaze again, and a shadow clouded that piercing blue. “It’s slowly destroying you inside, just how deeply you care. Your show of apathy is the only reason you’re still alive.”

Her knuckles blanched as she pushed him into the wall, hoping he didn’t see the tremble of her lower lip yet knowing that it wouldn’t slip past him unnoticed. “Bastard.” She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, her pulse beating a hysterical rhythm. Langdon was staring down at her again, like her soul had been put under a magnifying glass.

“How many times have you thought about killing them, if you could?”

Her brow creased. “I don’t know.” She dismissed his question with a shake of her head. “Everyone has those fucked up thoughts sometimes, especially down here, cut off from whatever’s left of civilization. It’s not like I’d actually do it.”

“Why?” Langdon’s grin was radiant, something sinister dancing around the edges. “Whatever sense of decency you’ve brought with you from old world didn’t stop you from finally unleashing your anger on me.”

“And yet you’re still breathing.”

He hummed—she couldn’t tell if it was approval, or amusement, or something else. Ice blue eyes flickered to her lips for just a second, considering. She fucking hated the way her body reacted, heat blossoming over her face, betraying the anger she felt. Before she could even think about acting on some foolish impulse again, he averted his deliberate, tempting gaze to somewhere over her shoulder.

“Pick up the knife.”

“No.”

Langdon raised his chin, and she saw that the bloody smudges he’d left there with his fingertips had started to darken. “You’ve been thinking about it since you walked in here,” he said. “Take it.”

She thought about running. She _should_ have—her common sense had flown out the door some time ago, apparently. Now she was trapped in his web and that same fucked up part of her that still found him frustratingly attractive was curious to see where exactly this game was going. She wasn’t naïve enough to think Langdon would let her kill him, but if she wanted to make him suffer, if she gave into those intrusive thoughts, how far would he let her go?

She studied him for a long moment, then released his arms. Langdon stayed pressed to the wall, a faint smirk on his lips, then dropped his arms to his sides with an almost supernatural grace. He watched her, head cocked to one side, as she stepped into the circle of melting candles. She held her breath; she didn’t know why, but it reminded her of that silly superstition they’d had as kids while passing by a cemetery.

The blood was slippery beneath her shoes. Black shapes slithered around her feet, one long, slender tail making an attempt to capture her ankle. She bit back a noise of disgust and shook her foot until the snake veered off in another direction. Lowering into a crouch, her eyes swept over the pentagram—half mesmerized, half revolted. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the oddly shaped knife at the same she heard Langdon’s soft footfalls approach.

He left a fresh trail of bloody footprints and joined her in the circle. She rose slowly from the floor, inhaling a ragged breath. The air was metallic and warm, smelling of fire and blood and candle wax. Sweat beaded down her temples. She felt like she couldn’t breathe; she pulled her attention away from him to the knife in her hand. Candlelight glinted off the blade, and for a moment she stared at the reflection of her own eyes, wondering how the fuck she’d gotten here.

Langdon was still studying her. Waiting. An inquisitive grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he eyed the knife in her possession. She turned to face him until they were chest to chest. The heat of his body leached into her own, a new wave of desire that she couldn’t quite escape coiling deep in her belly. He reached out to cup her cheek, his long, lithe fingers curved around her jaw, his palm pressed to her neck.

She knew he could feel her pulse racing under his hand. _Fuck, I hate you._

His grin widened, slowly, as if he’d been reading her thoughts. She didn’t like that, the way he seemed to know everything. Now she was sure she didn’t want to know who he was, but she could make a few guesses that he had some disturbing connections. Those ethereal vibes were as dark as they were alluring.

She gripped the knife tighter so her hand wouldn’t shake. She didn’t look at him while she flattened the blade against his skin, but she felt his heavy gaze on her. The cool metal traced his hipbone up to his abdomen, clearing a path through the drying blood. She felt the rise and fall of his torso grazing her knuckles, his breath far too calm and controlled.

She pressed the tip of the blade to the skin above his navel. His thumb dragged along her lower lip, waiting, maybe wondering if she would, in fact, make him bleed. She wanted to—fuck, she wanted it so badly, to make him whimper, suffer a little. Make him as weak as he’d made her feel.

The blade sunk into Langdon’s skin. Crimson beaded in its wake, spilling in tiny rivulets down his stomach like rain. She’d never cut into flesh with a knife before, but the morbid fascination was still in there somewhere, surprised at how easy it’d been. She heard Langdon’s sharp inhale and saw the shadow of his ribs. His stomach muscles tightened; she pressed her fingertips to his side, the drying blood on her own hands tugging at her skin.

She moved the blade up, just below his ribs, and cut a parallel line. The knife drove a little deeper this time, iron blossoming into the air, Langdon’s low groan rising to meet it. She thought it should have been illegal, that noise he made; she elected to ignore whatever feelings it stirred within her.

She expected him to flinch, to wrap his long fingers around her hand and flip the knife so it disappeared into her gut. It would be so easy, so quick.

Fucking painful. Goddamn it, why hadn’t she run?

Langdon was breathing heavier now, his free hand clenched into a fist at his side. His quiet, panting gasp swept over the crown of her head and she shivered, her veins alight with the power he’d given her. His other hand burrowed into her hair, though the warmth of his fingers across his cheek seemed branded into her flesh.

Langdon threaded his nimble fingers through her dark hair, fingertips massaging her scalp in maddening circles. He pulled just a touch too hard—she couldn’t stifle the moan that escaped her throat in time; it ricocheted off the walls of the antechamber.

She watched his head tip upward, hair spun like gold tumbling down the back of his shoulders. His eyes closed, his expression unreadable and his breath slowing. He’d left his neck exposed, vulnerable—on fucking purpose, she was sure. Giving her a choice. At this point, she didn’t know if she wanted to set the knife or her lips to his skin. The blood had turned dark over the tender hollow of his throat, almost black as the candles burned low around their feet and the light grew dimmer.

Her lips hovered over his collarbone, her free hand sliding up to the cut below his ribs. She dug her thumb in, fresh blood running over her knuckle, oozing under her nail. The room was so suffused with iron that she’d become immune to it. Langdon’s breath caught; she felt the stutter against her chest.

She chose the knife.

The tip of the blade settled on his neck. She saw it—the single, fluid motion it would take, like a bow sweeping across violin strings. Her hand shook.

The high ceiling welcomed the sound of his wry laughter. “Is that what you want?” His voice was low, dangerous, dripping with sin. “To kill me?”

She held her breath. Her eyes closed the same moment a single droplet of blood bubbled up from under the edge of the blade. The air seemed to shift in a single second, too quick to fathom.

She opened her eyes to a dark, vacant room. The candles had all blown out—she stood there, turning around in a frantic circle, her hands empty, the antechamber scrubbed entirely clean as if it hadn’t been a mess of blood and candle wax and snakes just a moment before. The knife was gone, and a cold draft of air replaced the ethereal heat of Langdon’s presence. An eerie whisper prickled at her ears, words she couldn’t decipher hanging around her like an apparition.

She was still covered in Langdon’s blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I'll continue from here, but I'd appreciate any and all thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite scene in the finale (and really, one of the only good things about it) inspired this chapter. This might be my favorite thing I've written for Michael yet.

_What the fuck. What the fuck. What. The. Fuck._

The room was suddenly freezing, the stifling heat that had pressed against her flushed skin gone with the light of the candles. The acrid scent of smoke assailed her nose, pale gray columns swirling upward in the dark from the extinguished wicks. She shivered. A fresh wave of panic-riddled adrenaline cooled the sweat on her skin; strands of hair that had escaped her tight bun clung to the back of her neck. The only sound left in the room was the echo of her breathing, choked, shallow gasps that made her wince at the effort.

Drying blood across her knuckles, coating her fingers in scarlet—now black in the dark room like she’d smeared charcoal all over her hands—made her skin feel tight. She glanced down at her clothes, the black splotches like some kind of fucked up Jackson Pollock painting, her gray dress the unwitting canvas. Hysterical laughter welled up from somewhere inside her chest and bounced off the walls.

If she didn’t laugh, she thought maybe she’d lose her mind.

 _Langdon’s blood._  She turned her hands over and over in front of her face, trembling, the dark stains clearer as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. What was she expecting to find? A hint of whatever secrets he was so obviously hiding? It was normal blood; red, human, metallic.  _But there’d been so_ much  _of it…_ He’d been soaked in it, the cuts in his arms deep enough to bleed himself dry, that pentagram on the floor… The snakes. Couldn’t forget the damned snakes.

There was, of course, something very  _non-human_ about him. And did it surprise her, really? The way he’d walked into the outpost as if he’d own the place and everyone in it without saying a single word, his footsteps slow and calculating. A cold blue gaze that could play mind games with people’s souls for the hell of it. An ethereal beauty that could’ve been divine if there wasn’t something so ominous lurking beneath.

Anger continued to burn through her system in the dark—the anger Langdon had provoked and toyed with for whatever purpose. She hated herself more for still being caught up in his spell.

She’d hesitated, with the knife.  _Why?_

Still, she  _had_  made him bleed. She’d cut him open, made him feel pain, and wore his blood on her hands as proof. No one else in this miserable Outpost could claim that. Even if Langdon had been the one in control the whole time, knowing she was just a useless speck of dust, she’d seen him vulnerable. She had that, at least. He’d handed her that knife.  _He_  had given her that sense of power, even if it had been fleeting.

 _I just wanted to see what you would do._  His taunt, that voice smooth as velvet, sent a shudder down the length of her spine, and he wasn’t even in the room anymore.

“Fuck you, Langdon,” she muttered. “Asshole.”

She was in deep shit now.

The corridors, while dimly lit, were not going to be as forgiving as the darkness in this room. And though they were usually empty right now except for her fellow Grays, the risk of getting caught made another dizzying swell of panic set in. She’d have to risk it. There was no other option. If she kept to the deepest shadows, if she moved quickly through the hallways she’d now memorized… And what? Where the fuck would she go like this, with blood on her clothes that wasn’t hers?

Unlike the Purples, the lowly Grays didn’t live in luxury at Outpost 3. Their suites were mostly the same, but they weren’t private. She had a roommate who never seemed to sleep, who liked to pry into her personal life before the end of the world and gossip about everyone else in this hellhole. She couldn’t just waltz into their room like this and expect her roommate to be okay with it. Or stay quiet.

 _Shit._  Well, there was  _one_  option.

_Oh, fuck no._

“No,” she announced to the vacant room, as if scolding herself for even thinking it. “Absolutely not.”

_You have nowhere else to go._

Walking outside into the nuclear winter seemed like a better alternative at this moment in time than asking  _him_  for help.

Her feet moved anyway, and she ducked out of the room before her mind had a chance to catch up. As she’d predicted, the corridors were barren, golden light reflected across the glossy pale wood floors and flickering from sconces set in the walls. She only had to dodge out of the sightline of a male Gray; he’d been half-asleep, digging the heel of his palm into his eye while he shuffled down the hall carrying a stack of freshly laundered towels. As she rounded the circular corridor of private suites, the steady, menacing tap of Venable’s cane rose up from somewhere—not close by, exactly, but the sound seemed to come from everywhere and it immediately sent her nerves careening over the edge. Eighteen months, and she’d formed a Pavlovian response to that goddamned cane. If she ever got out of this miserable pit, she’d probably hear it in her sleep.  

Before she could locate Venable, she flung herself at the door to Langdon’s suite and breathed a sigh of relief when she found it unlocked. A sigh of relief that the lion’s den was open for her to make herself prey once again. What was the world coming to?

Not much, apparently, these days.

She leaned back into the door and it clicked shut softly. She’d expected to lift her head and find those imploring pale blue eyes glaring at her, but the room was uninhabited.

Well, she’d  _thought_  it was uninhabited.

Orange firelight spilled from the en suite bathroom door, which had been left open just a crack. She saw a shadow of movement under the door and was entirely aware that Langdon knew she was in here. He had to have known; he had that omniscient way about him that made goosebumps sprout along her skin.

_What was the next part of this brilliant plan again? Right. There wasn’t one._

Nothing about his room gave away anything about who or what he was. It was furnished like all the others, minimalist and a little cold, if it weren’t for the candles burning. It looked as though he hadn’t even moved in; the bed remained untouched, everything else in its proper place.

Except for that knife.

It was just sitting there on the desk, bright steel flashing in the candlelight. Langdon had had time to wipe it clean…and leave it out for her. Like he’d known her steps before she’d made them. She’d had no other choice than to end up right here with him again. Maybe the sick fuck wanted to continue their lethal dance, though she didn’t think he had a death wish. Maybe it was just another test.

Or maybe she’d walked into a trap. She’d probably deserve it this time.

She didn’t give it much of a second thought as her already bloodied fingers curled around the familiar hilt. Her pulse thundered in her ears, impossibly loud, and she held her breath as if it would help her presence go unnoticed. It wouldn’t, she knew. Langdon wanted her here for whatever reason. And she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious about how far she’d let him lead her toward the edge now that months of lonely anger had been allowed to run unchecked. She pressed her fingertips to the bathroom door, fingers splayed across the wood in a delicate touch.

What would the end of the world turn her into? Who, exactly, did she  _want_  to be?

It happened fast. The door opened—not by her hand—and Langdon met her on the other side, tall and clothed in black and pristine as if blood had never marred his skin. The barest of smug grins flashed across his lips and then the blade disappeared into his stomach, her fingers still wrapped around the handle.

It had been easier than she would’ve imagined. The steel drove through layers of fabric and tissue and muscle like it was nothing, and Langdon’s blood trickled from her fingers and onto the floor between them. She didn’t see it—she held Langdon’s icy gaze instead, her face expressionless, her brow knit together—but she felt it, warm and sticky as it rolled down her fingertips.

Langdon grunted and staggered back a few paces, breaking the spell of her gaze to glance at the knife hilt protruding from his shirt. It was a noise of irritation, not pain, she realized, as his long fingers hovered near the offending knife. His eyes flickered back up at her through a curtain of strawberry blond hair, his fingertips swiping at the blood that now soaked the front of his shirt.

He was, at best, mildly inconvenienced. And still a little smug.

She would have pushed the knife in further if she could.

“And here I was hoping that you’d have done this sooner, so I wouldn’t have to clean up another mess.”

Langdon wore that grin that she so loathed, his tone dripping with sarcasm and an underlying hint of arrogance. He appeared to be more pissed off about the ruined clothing than the fact that there was still a knife sticking out of his gut. Of fucking course.

He huffed a laugh. “After everything you’ve seen, you  _really_  thought you could kill me with this?”

Langdon wrenched the knife out of his stomach with one fluid motion, groaning the whole time, and directed a very deliberate, exaggerated and cocky eye roll in her direction. She gaped at him, her eyes wide, when he let it clatter onto the bathroom floor. She’d thought for just a moment that he was planning to slit her throat with it.

He tilted his head and brandished his arms out at his sides, rings catching the pale yellow glow of the candles. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” She backpedaled, mouth still agape, until her calves hit the side of the bed.

“Not quite.” Langdon brushed past her to the dresser, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. She stared at the line of dark red, trying to come up with something to say, but the words turned to dust on her tongue. He was right, of course. What had she expected? What had she  _wanted_?

“I’m impressed,” he drawled in that way of his. “I didn’t think you would do it. Useless as it may have been, it was rather brazen of you.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she demanded. “What _are_  you?”

He wiped the blood off his fingertips on the soiled shirt and then tugged an identical one from a drawer.

“As I’ve made clear before, that’s cla—”

“ _Don’t_.” She cut him off as he moved by her again, shirt clutched in his fist. It annoyed her that he liked to use his height to his advantage, straightening his spine to appear more intimidating, peering down at her. But she was determined not to wilt. “Don’t give me that classified bullshit. Not after _that_.”

Langdon side-stepped her to stand at the foot of the bed, where he tossed the clean shirt. He made quick work of the buttons on the one she’d ruined, lithe fingers sweeping over the small, black buttons. She watched with morbid interest—and, to her own irritation, a pang of attraction that refused to die—as he wrenched the shirt from his pants, slipped it off, and held it in the air. Bright red had blossomed across his stomach, but there wasn’t a gaping wound to be found. His pale skin was unmarked, free of the deep cuts they had both carved.

“You should be more careful of the questions you ask.” His slender fingers prodded at the shirt where the knife had torn through the fabric. She stared a little too long, eyes gliding over toned muscle before he caught her. “The truth can be worse than the unknown.”

Langdon crossed to the bathroom once more, tossing his stained shirt toward the desk where it landed in a heap on the floor. She watched him from the doorway while he cleaned up the blood on his abdomen with a dampened towel. It was odd, to her; this whole fucking situation was a dictionary entry underneath the definition of odd. But watching Langdon, this asshole of an ethereal being, do something so mundane almost made her laugh.

“I  _stabbed_  you, Langdon,” she said flatly. “A stab wound that would’ve killed someone else, and yet, you’re unfortunately still breathing. A stab wound, might I add, that fucking  _disappeared_.”

She crossed her arms over her chest from the threshold, conscious of the fact that she was smearing more of his blood everywhere on her clothes but too exhausted to care about it. It was difficult enough to ignore the graceful slope of his nose and the piercing blue of his eyes in the glow of candles. She didn’t know what it was, exactly, about him parading around without a shirt, long hair brushing over his shoulders as he moved, that made her more aware of his magnetism than seeing him naked.

He cast her a sidelong glance and dropped the towel onto the edge of the sink. “I hadn’t noticed.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes. She had to summon the resolve not to grab that damned knife from where it had skittered next to the shower. “I think you owe me the truth, now.” She finally stepped into the bathroom, her stare hard, eyebrows pulling together. “The snakes, the ritualistic shit or whatever you were doing down there.  _Everything._  No more bullshit. Haven’t I proven myself enough for you?”

A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “More than I thought you would.”

“None of the other interviewees made you bleed, did they?”

It was her turn to be just a little bit smug, too, and rub that particular grim accomplishment in his face. It’d been his fault, really, for tempting her like that. Something about him still scared the ever-loving shit out of her, but at least she had this one tiny victory.

A look she couldn’t decipher passed over his face for just a second, gone quicker than it had appeared. “I never gave them the opportunity,” he said. “ _You_ , though…you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You could’ve killed me and saved yourself the trouble,” she told him. “I thought you would. Whatever I said…I never assumed you’d be convinced.”

“What a waste that would’ve been,” Langdon said, head cocked to one side. His voice was low, bordering on soft. He beckoned her toward him with a leisurely flick of two fingers, and she obliged, her pulse once again tapping a wild rhythm.

Langdon held out his hand, fingers curled slightly, the simple movement graceful as ever. She hesitated a moment, then settled her palm into his. It surprised her how the traces of anger and whatever ominous feelings she’d had about him vanished with a single touch. Suddenly he was just a man, bone and flesh and blood, nothing more.

She knew it was just an illusion. But she followed anyway, inching closer to the edge.

He bent at the waist a little and took her hand, guiding it up behind his ear. “It might be easier,” his soft, long fingers captured hers and pressed her fingertip to his burning hot skin, “to show you.” The pad of her finger found a raised mark there, a series of bumps that she couldn’t decode no matter how long she spent tracing them. She leaned over and swept aside his hair, the strands running like silk through her fingers.

And then she saw it. Like an angry welt hiding behind the shell of his ear, a brand that confirmed he wasn’t, in fact, just a man.

The mark of the beast.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea where this fic is going, but I'm having fun writing it. I hope you're enjoying reading it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!! Thank you for all the kudos and comments. This is such a fun fic to write, and I hope you enjoy this latest part.

She recoiled as if the mark had scorched her fingertips, as if her skin had blistered in an open flame. It might as well have—he’d been warm all over; she’d felt that warmth through her clothes, but the mark behind his ear was blazing hot. She stumbled away from him until her back slammed into the wall near the doorway, hysterical laughter numbing the pain that jolted up her spine and knocked her teeth together. Her hands were shaking again.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” she said at last. “That’s just— _no_. You know what? This game has gone on long enough. I don’t know what kind of shit you’re trying to pull here, but _that_ …I’m not… _no_.”

“You asked for the truth.” Langdon eyed her with slightly disheveled hair and annoyance pulling at the smirk on his lips. It was a composed sense of annoyance, which seemed like an unbelievable concept to her. She felt such a weird mix of confusion and rage and attraction toward him that she was beginning to infuriate herself, and she was sure that he could see every single bit of it.

“I gave you nothing else.” He took slow, deliberate steps to eliminate the distance she’d put between them. “When you found me, a part of you _knew_.” Langdon inched closer, the pointed toe of one his shoes settling between her feet. “And when you said those words back to me…you _felt_ them, didn’t you? The power of them—of my father. Suddenly, the world became clearer…every need, every desire, no matter how dark,” he planted his hands on either side of her shoulders, “…and the very _thought_ of it frightened you.”

What little air that had been left between them seemed to crackle, the heat that flowed from him playing across her skin. Her palms were slick with sweat again, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Langdon. She didn’t know what she hated more—him, or her inability to resist the intense, prying look he’d leveled her with.

She definitely fucking hated that he was right.

 _Ave Satanas_. The words she’d said against his mouth, so full of rage and want, her mind hazy with it. She’d said them before she understood the full weight of them; she’d needed him to feel the words on her own lips. What the fuck was wrong with her?

“You may not be a _believer_ —not yet,” Langdon cocked his head to the side, just a little, “but you believe in things beyond this ruined world,” he continued. “I could see it in your eyes…just as you saw it in mine.”

Lightning appeared to streak across his face and illuminate another side of him that lay hidden beneath his impeccable jawline and silky blond hair. It lasted for a moment or two; eyes shining like onyx sunken into a pale, withered face. Something hellish. A monster.

The fucking _Antichrist_.

She felt dizzy again. Her spine pressed into the wall, her fingers cold and tingling as panic began to race through her bloodstream. “You’re going to kill me.”

“ _No_ ,” he drawled. Langdon lifted one of his hands and she felt his soft, warm fingertips wander along her cheekbone. His blood had long since dried on her skin, staining her dark red, and the scent and feeling of it seemed to leach into her soul. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. You gave me more than enough opportunities.”

She slapped his hand away without thinking about the fact that he could strangle her or probably break her goddamn neck with it. Fear made her angry, and anger made her act entirely on impulse.

“Then why the hell are you here?” she demanded. Langdon dropped his hands to his sides, one eyebrow raised at her outburst in a show of amusement. “You’re the reason we’ve all been miserable for the past eighteen months. _You_ started all of this shit.” She huffed out a shallow, anxious breath. _The fucking Antichrist._ “It’s been a while since I’ve gone to Sunday school, but I recall the Book of Revelation being a huge fucking deal.”

“So death would’ve been preferable to you?” Langdon goaded. “Torn apart by the blasts or the agonizing effects of radiation? Compared to the rest of the world, eighteen months of loneliness and servitude seems a far better alternative.” He folded one arm behind his back; he’d stepped away from her, taking the warmth with him. His tone regained some of its sharpness. “The only reason this outpost is standing is because _I_ helped make it possible. And I’m here, as I said before, at the interest of The Cooperative. I haven’t lied.”

“You destroyed the world.” She scoffed, but she still missed the heat he carried. The anxiety in her veins had made her cold and her chest tight. A small fragment of her realized that she was only fighting him and asking these questions because it seemed like the right thing to do. That nagging thread of morality left from the old world; an effort that had become futile, now. “If you ask me, _deceptive_ doesn’t even begin to cover that one, Langdon.”

“Humanity has already been doing that for centuries,” Langdon countered, side-stepping the accusation she’d hurled at him. “It was never going to last. We wiped the slate clean, and now it’s time to decide who will make this new world flourish in my father’s image.”

_His father. Satan. How the shit did I get here, again?_

Goddamn it, she really, _really_ fucking hated that he was right.

She was so exhausted and bewildered by this whole situation that it took her a moment to comprehend that he’d fixed her with one rather expectant look. Her own laughter, all sarcasm and disbelief—the traces of hysteria gone as if the two of them had finally reached some strange level of understanding—echoed in the cavernous bathroom. Was it her own fatigue that made her slightly more open to the possibilities, or had she sold her soul the moment she accepted his challenge?

“I’m nobody.”

The coolness of the tile against her back made her shiver, so she pushed off it to take a few wary steps in his direction. Once she settled in front of him, Langdon dropped the arm that had been folded behind his back and peered at her with a narrowed gaze. She had to stop the contented sigh that almost worked its way from her throat when she fell back into the orbit of his warmth.

“A worker ant.” Venable’s words made her cringe, even from her own mouth. “I’m surprised you haven’t crushed me underneath your very expensive heel yet.”

That earned her a grin. Her stomach did another one of those involuntary somersaults, and without thinking too much about it, she dared one step closer. The hem of her dress brushed against his pants and the toe of her drab shoe knocked into his, but he didn’t move.

He leaned forward so that his breath skirted her hair. “That’s just what this place has turned you into.” Langdon took her hand and brought up so that it was level with his chest, running his thumb along the dark stains on her knuckles. His curious gaze dropped to the coating of dried blood on her skin, which seemed almost like a reprieve from his endless pursuit of her soul. As he traced a gentle fingertip across her knuckles, she clenched her jaw shut tight.

“At least consider that you could be more.” His thumb traveled down the inside of her wrist, following the path where the ribbons of his blood had soaked into her flesh and the sleeve of her dress. His voice turned low and dangerous. “I think you were made for this new world—you showed me that when you freed yourself from the old rules. You’re not the same person you were when you walked into that room; you and I both know that. But the question is,” he drew out the syllables, ice blue eyes flickering up to her own, “will you allow yourself to accept who you could be?”

Langdon hummed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His words dropped into an almost whisper, warm breath ghosting across the tender flesh of her wrist. His lips now hovered just above the network of veins that had been concealed under a layer of dark blood, his head dipped toward her, hair cascading gracefully down his bare shoulder. She watched him inhale the remaining scent of iron.

“Chaos becomes you.”

A shudder wracked her body, and she knew he’d felt it as her fingers curled under his touch. She waited for him to press his lips to her wrist, to maybe taste the iron on her skin, but instead he dropped her hand.

Her eyebrows pulled together. “Or, I could tell everyone your dark secret.” She flexed her fingers at her side, the ghost of his touch and the warmth of him still lingering on her skin.

Langdon’s face was suddenly bright with a sarcastic grin that she wanted to loathe, but it only made her cheeks feel flushed. “As if they would believe you.”

He circled around her until he came to rest at her back, and she leaned, just a little, into the solid presence of his bare chest. She found him staring at their reflection in the mirror above the sink—Langdon, fucking perfect as always, despite the fact that he’d been stabbed in the past half hour, and there _she_ was…a fucking blood-stained travesty of a human being. She didn’t even look worthy enough to polish his shoes.

Maybe that was the exhaustion talking. This night had lasted for an eternity.

“So…” His words were low and rough in her ear. Heat prickled up the back of her neck. “While I’ve enjoyed the sight of you covered in my blood,” he swept a chunk of hair over her shoulder and one of his rings grazed the side of her throat, “I’m afraid I can’t let you walk around the outpost like that.”

Langdon moved away from her, and she stared at the muscles that rippled in his back as he retreated, this time without a sense of shame or a hint of rage.

“Take all the time you need.” And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, the room so many degrees colder than she would’ve liked.

She let out a sigh. _Well, shit._

In the end, she decided that taking a shower in the fucking Antichrist’s private en suite ranked very low on the list of unbelievable shit that had happened tonight. Exhaustion had made itself comfortable in her bones. And even though she thought of the blood on her as some kind of morbid trophy—she’d made the fucking Antichrist bleed and _lived_ —all she wanted to do right now was clean herself up and sleep. Maybe for an eternity.

The cold air hit her skin, raising goosebumps as she let her dress pool around her ankles. Her bra and panties followed, and for a second she stood there in the soft yellow light of the candles, wondering what she’d do about the blood-stained clothes. Her vision went unfocused, tired and in a daze, her thoughts wandering off in too many directions. Thinking about Langdon just on the other side of that damned door and if she actually trusted him enough to make herself vulnerable with nothing but a rather thin wall between them.

And the knife.

She’d forgotten about it, honestly. It had been neglected on the floor by the shower, blood splattered on the tiles when Langdon had tossed it. The blade was more crimson than steel now. He’d been right, of course—to her deep, unwavering irritation, he always seemed to be right—she wasn’t the same. She didn’t feel the same. These past eighteen months had taken their toll, but _this_ …it wasn’t anything she could explain. Had she always been like this? Had she always _wanted_ to be like this? Or was it just what this strange, new world now demanded of her?

She kicked the knife under the pile of clothes.

The water ran dark red, the scent of whatever flowery soap that came standard in the outpost blossoming into the air. She watched the tendrils of red swirl in the soapy water around her feet until they vanished down the drain. The near scalding heat worked her tense, weary muscles loose.

Clouds of steam obscured the glass as she scrubbed at her skin until it was bright pink, eliminating every trace of Langdon’s blood. She melted into the warmth, eyes fluttering closed, trying to breathe after whatever the fuck had happened. When she realized she was actually falling asleep standing up, lulled into a gentle comfort by the water, she decided it was time to leave.

She shoved aside a few used towels on the floor with her foot, entirely cognizant of the fact that while she’d be one of the people washing them later, she’d used up all of Langdon’s clean towels out of spite. While towel-drying her hair, wandering around the bathroom in aimless circles, she noticed something folded over the chair in front of the vanity table. It definitely hadn’t been there before she’d hopped in the shower. Langdon’s en suite had been untouched except for the blood stains, devoid of anything personal.

Except for the coat that was now on the chair. The coat that he had somehow left in here while she’d been oblivious.

For…her?

 _Huh. That’s…_ something _, all right._

She finished halfheartedly drying off her hair and then dropped the dampened towel into the pile with the rest. “Fuck it.”

After sliding her bra and panties back on, she considered the heap of blood-stained clothes and decided her shoes were the only thing worth saving. There was more identical, boring gray attire in her room; not as many as the Purples had in their wardrobes, but she could spare at least one set. She cleaned the blood off her shoes as best she could—she figured the bloodied towels were another problem for Langdon to solve—and then picked up the coat from the back of the chair.

Her stomach did another one of those obnoxious somersaults. It was an elegant coat, long and black and lined with buttons. She held it up, unfolding it to reveal the bright red lining on the inside. An equally obnoxious part of her brain remembered that Langdon had been wearing this coat when he’d first introduced himself to everyone in the outpost. She sunk into it, suddenly more alert than she’d been in the past half hour, her pulse speeding up its rhythm. It was the finest piece of clothing she’d worn in over a year, and probably the most expensive thing she’d ever worn in her life.

And it belonged to Langdon.

Was it possible that some part of him wasn’t complete hell spawn?

She pulled the coat closed and buttoned it—frustratingly aware that she was half-naked underneath it. _Holy fuck, why_. The fabric felt like silk against her bare skin, cool enough to provoke another round of goosebumps that broke through the lingering heat from her shower. The sleeves were too long, and her hands disappeared into them no matter how many times she pulled them back up. It smelled exquisite: rich and earthy like a rain-soaked forest with just a hint of wood smoke and something else, maybe warm spices and citrus. She breathed in deep, inhaling the intoxicating scent, recalling images of a world that hadn’t been nuked to hell. Is this what he smelled like _all the time_? She hadn’t had a chance to notice, what with all the blood. It was nice. Really nice.

_Well. I’m fucked._

She suppressed a groan.

The knife had been left where she kicked it—there was no damn way Langdon didn’t know about it, either—and without a second thought, she wiped off the blood and stuffed it in an inside pocket. Once she gathered up her pile of stained clothes, she summoned whatever was left of her resolve in the mess of her own exhaustion and walked back into Langdon’s suite.

His attention had been pulled toward her at the sound of the bathroom door opening, half of his face caught in the pale white glow of a laptop screen. _When did the outpost get WiFi?_   He had one elbow propped up on the desk, his hand slowly curling into a loose fist. He was once again fully clothed in black. She didn’t miss the way his bright blue gaze took in the sight of her in his fucking coat. The way his lips curved into a smirk. The way his head tilted, and his chin rose as if in appreciation. Was it genuine, or was he just fucking with her? Maybe it was just her lustful, traitorous imagination. Maybe it was smugness, or fucking _delight_ , because he’d helped put her in this situation.

She sighed. “ _Don’t_.”

Langdon made an indifferent sort of gesture with his hand, but his smirk deepened. “I didn’t say a word.”

“You don’t have to.”  

He rose from the desk and crossed the room in several long strides to open the door. “I’ll need that back.”

“Obviously.” She made sure the corridor was empty before she stepped out. “No one will know about it.”

Langdon’s chin rose again, and this time she couldn’t read his expression. “Good night.”

The door clicked shut when she was halfway down the corridor. She moved as quickly as she could through the labyrinth of hallways—now more empty than they had been before; everyone had to have gone to bed by now. Not that time existed down here anymore, but she’d never felt the effects of such a weird, virtually lawless existence than she did walking through the outpost on this artificial night. She found herself both longing for the construct of time and thrilled that it no longer held any meaning. All she knew for sure was that she just wanted to fucking sleep. Langdon had drained whatever energy she’d had left.

She stopped once in her travels to burn her clothes in one of the large fireplaces; her eyes burned with fatigue while she watched the flames consume the last evidence of her bloody interview with Langdon. When she finally arrived at her room in the Gray quarters, her roommate was blissfully asleep, tucked away under the covers.

Slipping off her shoes, she padded across the room to her armoire under the dim light of the low burning candles. With a pang of reluctance that she did _not_ want to acknowledge in any way at all, she took off Langdon’s coat and stowed it among her comparatively dull wardrobe. It wouldn’t be in here long enough for her roommate to find it. The girl was gossipy to a fault, but she at least kept out of her belongings. Not that any of them had much to begin with.

She dressed in a plain, off-white linen nightgown that served no purpose other than to uphold Venable’s outdated aesthetic. And finally… _finally_ , after this endless fucking night or whatever the hell it had been, she dragged her tired body to her bed and crawled under the blankets.

And she hid the Antichrist’s knife under her pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no plans to follow canon in this fic, nor do I have a particular idea of where exactly this is going...but if there's something you'd like to see, then let me know!


End file.
